Tale Of The Last Twinkie
by Maelstrom
Summary: The Hank and Bobby feud begins. ;)


This actually started out as the beginning of a totally different fic, but then it took on a life of its own and just wouldn't go where I told it to go! ;) This is the first time I'm writing Hank and Bobby, so mountains of sorrys if I get them wrong. Please yell at me if I do. :) 

Feedback will be greatfully appreciated and result in me following you around with that sappy look in my eyes. And yes, I'll do it for free. 

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Tale Of The Last Twinkie by Maelstrom 

"My good sir, I don't care if that Twinkie bar *has* been lounging in my victuals cabinet for more than two weeks, it's the sheer principle of the thing!" 

"Oh c'mon, Blue," Bobby cast an unaffected grin at his best friend. "You knew it was there. I knew it was there. You knew I knew it was there, vice versa. And *everyone* knows your weakness for all things sugary when you're up doing late-night research. All Milky Ways and Gummi Bears that you store in that cupboard are bound to be gone within two or three days. But you *left* that Twinkie there alone for two whole weeks! It was a sign. You *wanted* me to have it. Ah -" he held up a finger to shush a yelp of protest from Hank, "you told yourself, your subconscious told you, 'I must leave it for Robert. He is my good friend. He is my best friend. He is the most wonderful and entertaining person in the world that I simply must grant him this one Twinkie, because he's worth it! He's worth as much as this Twinkie!'" Bobby paused. "Hold on, I don't think I phrased that last sentence quite right. . ." 

"Robert Drake, you - you insidious underhanded pilfering traitor!" 

"Uh-ah, what did we say the last time about name-calling? 'It is not productive towards our general well-being -'" 

Hank's blue self seemed to turn a slight indigo. "To the deep netherworld with our general well-being. No, rather, to the deep netherworld with *your* general well-being, because when I am through with you -" 

"Would a Kit-Kat help?" Bobby quickly offered, suddenly dangling the red palm-sized packet that had been hidden behind his back. Henry McCoy glared at his friend's hopeful smile, calculating how much time he would have to strangle the man before the others came charging down into the lab to stop him. Considering that the lab was below in the basement, and the rest of the team were upstairs busy making their usual racket, he would have an estimated five minutes and thirty-three seconds to carry out the deed. . . three minutes if Robert happened to break something. People always seemed to rush to the scene faster when they hear the shatter of glass. It was almost as if smacking and choking noises were everyday fare around the mansion. 

Well, come to think of it. . . 

Hank redirected his glare at the Kit-Kat bar, but he found, as always, that he could never stay mad at a good chocolatey wafer for long. 

"Perhaps," he said grudgingly in answer to Bobby's question, taking the treat and delicately peeling the foil wrappings off it. Four happy brown pieces stared up at him in anticipation. 

"Give me a break, give me a break," Bobby began singing, but Hank immediately shot him a look. "Okay, okay," Bobby said, taking a step back. "Hey, really, I didn't mean to eat your Twinkie. It's just that midnight munchies are very unforgiving at two in the morning. And there was nothing else to eat." 

"What are you talking about?" Hank asked indignantly, crunching down on two crisp luscious wafers. Yum. "There was plenty of ice-cream and Cool Whip in the refrigerator!" 

"Yeah, but problem was, Nate and Dom were *in* the kitchen at the time. And were in one of their more, um, hot and heavy sessions, so to speak. As if that round in the Danger Room yesterday wasn't enough for them. Plus they were doing things with the ice-cream and Cool Whip that make me shudder at the memory." 

"Oh my dear stars and garters," Hank sighed. "My poor Bobby. You have my deepest sympathies." 

Robert beamed. 

"But that still doesn't mean I forgive you." 

Robert stopped beaming. 

"But Hank," he pleaded. 

"Shush, Drake," the Beast admonished petulantly. "That Twinkie was the last thing in my entire larder, and I'm entitled to mope for at least a good hour before I think up of a proper vengeance plan to carry out on you. My. Last. Stash. The one I kept for emergencies, in case an earthquake occurred or Magneto attacked or Apocalypse chose to blow his nose on our roof tiles. If I were to be trapped for five weeks in this basement as a result of all exits being cut off, I would be safe in the knowledge that I could at least last for a while with that Twinkie. The Holy Grail of survival snacks, the maestro of morsels -" 

"You do realize, of course, that you're talking about storing a measly Twinkie until the end of eternity," Bobby pointed out. "At which point, said Twinkie would probably go rancid and make your stomach suffer more grief than Maggie or 'Pocalypse combined. You'd probably be clawing for an exit of your own after eating that bad maestro." 

Hank looked indignant. "I beg your pardon. I'll let you know that my digestive system is highly capable of processing the various comestibles that I consume -" 

"Hmph, yeah, don't we know it, with the stuff you eat all the time. . ." 

"- and *besides,*" Hank said, glaring, "it is *not* stored until the end of eternity. You forget that the mansion gets blown up on a regular basis, which thus supports my plan of stocking up on Twinkies. Well, one Twinkie, that is." 

"Hmm, point," Robert agreed. "But you could always order a pizza instead. The phone lines would still work, since you've already made sure that they'd be unaffected in the event of a wrecked mansion. You never could stay away from your e-mails." 

Hank threw him a dry look. 

Bobby raised his hands and backed away. "Okay, okay, I'll get you two boxes full of chocolate bars and Twinkies. Truce?" 

Hank gave a sniff. "Six boxes." 

"*What?* No! Three!" 

"Four!" 

"Five!" 

"Deal!" 

Robert blinked for a few seconds, then it was his turn to glare at Hank. "You tricked me!" 

"I manipulated you," the Beast corrected. "Now scoot off and get. Right this minute." 

Bobby 'hmph'ed and theatrically rolled his eyes as he turned to go. "Blue baby. Such a hissy fit over a Twinkie. . ." 

"Hissy fit!" Hank exclaimed, whirling around and bounding after his friend. "Why you little -" But Bobby had already scurried through the door and slammed it shut. Hank 'grr'ed and grated his teeth -- oooh, that boy would pay for that, yes he would. No, five boxes would not make up for *that* particular remark, no sir. 

Normally Hank McCoy was quite genial. Normally he was quite amiable. But right now he was seriously deprived of sugary products, and as a result, someone must pay. Preferably with plenty of screams. 

He sat himself down in front of his computer and began typing. In a few minutes he'd accessed the mansion's network and hacked himself into Robert Drake's computer files. Hank proceeded to upload a few items that he had found on the Net, saved under his "Marked For Revenge" folder for times such as these. The process ensured that the next time Robert switched on his computer, Pokemon characters would be lined up all over the display screen, with "pika pika" mews playing incessantly in the background. Guaranteed to drive a man up the wall. 

Hank McCoy smiled as he stretched with pleasure in his seat. Then he dug into his desk drawer and rummaged through the disarray of paper items. Beneath the mess was a stash of Snickers bars, saved for moments when emergency Twinkies were just not available. 

Well, one could not live by Twinkies alone, could one? 

=End= 

Maelstrom :) -- wrote this all in one night, dodging in between dinner and what-nots. Does it show? 

Dance in Fields of Gold http://homepages.go.com/~teentorque/index.htm 


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